At Night
by ThisIsNotReality
Summary: Lestrade drunk-texts Sherlock, John and Sherlock goes to check out if he's OK and brings him to the flat. Slash, NO threesome! First time SH/JW, a little GL/JW, switching between JW & SH POV. Rated M for later chapters. Please R
1. In the darkness of the night

**(10/5/12 this is me betaing the thing - and correcting the A/N's - only minor corrections)**

**A/N:** Everything unbeta'ed, my apologies.

**1: Disclaimer! I do not own the characters, Sherlock or anything in that regard – they belong to the authors/creators of BBC's Sherlock, Sir ACD and those who legally hold any rights in that regard. I own nothing; they own everything.**

**2:** **Warning!** Slight **spoilers** for ASiB + blasphemy may occur throughout the story – I do not easily take offence by stuff like that, so I do not know if I'm being blasphemous.

**3: Plea! **Yes this got out of hand, it should have been a one-shot, so _please _be gentle and please _review._

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**In the darkness of the night  
**John's POV

"John, John… _John wake up!_"

The insisting voice crept inside Johns dream, and along with it came the sound of the rain and wind outside banging on the window. This had to be a figment of his imagination. It was too early, deeming by the light, or rather the lack of light, coming trough his eyelids, it was somewhere between the hour at which he had went to bed (_obviously_ Sherlock's voice rang through his brain) and before his alarm clock would go off – meaning that it had to be somewhere between 1:23 am and 7:45 am. In a word: _Ungodlyhourofthebleedingnight_ (Okay that wasn't technically one word but, to be fair, it was the most accurate one).

"JOHN!"

Nope, not his imagination. And the insisting voice was far too close. He peeked one eye open and was met by Sherlock's intense stare. This was either really good or really, really bad. Probably a combination, or a matter of perspective, depending on whether you were the corpse (presumably) that could make Sherlock this enthusiastic, John (clearly) or Sherlock – the only one who would only be happy about the corpse of a, to him, unknown person. To his dismay John realised that this line of thought implicated that he himself was caught somewhere between 'really good' and 'really, really bad'. And mostly the 'really, really bad' was due to the fact that his flatmate tried to wake him before his alarm clock. If Sherlock had been the alarm clock John would have slammed him hard to get another 10 minutes of sleep. Unfortunately, Sherlock was not the alarm clock.

"Your mind is clearly not capable of handling the long line of thought that you are trying to press upon it right now."

Sherlock kept staring at him, and John registered that he was fully dressed, so case it was, since he had discarded the pyjamas and dressing gown John had last seen him wear.

"Sherlock what time is it exactly?"

John forced both of his eyes open, debt perception setting in, and yes, the man hovering over him was not as close as he had first presumed.

"Hmm… If you find it relevant, I will answer you – but if you're just stalling to stay under your duvet, then I most certainly will not."

The eyes beaming down at him had a slightly annoyed expression in them. John let out a sigh; the battle for the comfort of the bed was lost. He tossed the duvet aside and his feet found the discomforting coldness of the floor. Sherlock moved swiftly to the doorway of John's bedroom, making him look like a tall silhouette against the light that crept in all the way from the staircase, through the hallway and just poked an annoyingly happy gleam inside the room.

"Fine, now you're up I can tell you that it's 3:38 am, and I would have preferred it to only be 3:30 am, but since you weren't keen on getting up, here we are."

The dark silhouette made a small movement and was lit up by the cold light of a mobile phone,

"I got a text…"

He continued while John started searching in the dark for his clothes, too tired to handle just the thought of turning on the lights.

"… from what appears to be Lestrade."

"Appears to be Lestrade? Why just appears to be?"

John frowned; it sounded a little odd.

"Yes, as I said, _appears to be._"

There was a slight annoyance in Sherlock's voice,

"See for yourself."

Sherlock made a movement and stretched out his phone to John. Typical, just as he was trapped in his jumper. He fought a little with the wool, tucked his shirt in his trousers and reached for the phone just as Sherlock started to make small sounds to tell him that he disapproved of his dressing rate. _Easy enough when you are already dressed_ John thought. He looked down at the phone in his hand to see what appears-to-be-Lestrade had texted:

**Lestrade – Message received 03:11 am  
**_What I rell don't understand, is why you just don't leave me alone, I looove you, always has, aalways will. Bud u cant do this to me, yu can CAN NOT!_

John looked up at Sherlock, feeling just a little confused,

"Sherlock what is this?"

"Read on."

**Message send 03:13 am  
**_Lestrade, besides from your appalling grammar and spelling, the content of your text would imply that you are drunk and unable to locate the right contact in your phonebook – SH_

**Lestrade – Message received 03:17 am  
**_Shrlock, I'm srry. I was texting my EXwife. The bloody womn ceeps shoving up nd run away agan with some bloody idot. I hpe I dint wake u_

"Oh dear God, the man must be really pissed." John half smiled, half cringed his eyebrows in a worried expression. The poor man was obviously hurt by that bloody _ex_-wife of his, which really was unfair because he was a good, warm man. Hell, if _John_ was his wife, he surely wouldn't treat him like that; and yes, he was well aware of the fact that he was _not_ a woman, nor wished to be one, and that he officially still held the role as being 'not gay' (he was still quite impressed by the fact that the brilliant Sherlock Holmes had not even once commented on the fact that he never said 'I'm not attracted to men', but then again the genius himself had displayed inclinations to the common misconceptions of gender and sexuality, the perfect example being the Harry mistake). The smile lingering on John lips wouldn't dissipate because it was rather funny to observe yet another example of the poor spellings of drunk people.

"Yes, he must be…" Sherlock said.

John lifted his gaze to see Sherlock standing in the hallway, now in vague colours due to the dim light from the staircase, his expression tightened just a fraction of a second before the blank, almost unreadable mask came over him. John wondered if Sherlock was aware of the fact that the expression in his eyes didn't always quite make it to the mask-like state that the rest of his face adopted, at least not to the people who really knew him (which, admittedly, was a number that could be counted on even an injured hand). The faint hint of an emotion that still lingered in his eyes almost seemed like hurt.

"As you already know by now, I pointed it out to him. What I don't understand right now is the ridiculous smile you have on your face alongside your 'worried look', since you clearly haven't read the last of the texts."

"I'm simply just finding it a little amusing how badly drunk people in general are at hitting the right keys."

"You must be used to that by now."

"Gee, thanks Sherlock, and Harry usually calls, if she gives any sign of life to me that is."

"Oh, yes, well… Just…"

Sherlock fluttered his hand in the direction of John and the phone with an impatient expression.

"Read the rest of the texts."

John sighed, not really understanding why on earth he was dragged out of bed and forced (well yes, he had actually done it of his own free will and because it had looked like they were about to go to a crime scene) to get dressed. Reluctantly he read on:

**Message send 03:18 am  
**_You disturbed my violin, actually. You should go home, or find a place to sleep. –SH_

**Lestrade – Message received 03:22 am  
**_No plaseelse I can bear to go. Im texting wit u! And I'm not sur yo evn lik me tryn to be friends with yu_

**Message send 03:23 am  
**_Where are you? – SH_

**Lestrade – Message received 03:26 am  
**_Im a the pub jst across from the Yard – and I don't meen the on wit flowers an threes! Andrson dragd me here, he left. Easy wen y hav two pepl to choos from_

John looked up to meet Sherlock's gaze, the excitement had come back in his expression.

"Tell me why you think I should be dragged out of bed at half past four…"

"Tree-thirty-eight." Sherlock interjected.

"Fine, tree-thirty-eight in the morning to go pick up a very drunk Lestrade? Surely you could have done that yourself."

"Well... I just need you to film him…"

"_Sherlock!_ What are you thinking? The man is pissed out of his mind and unhappy, and you want to _film him_ and what, leave him there?"

"Of course we are going to bring him home to his flat – _and I'm not going to handle him myself_ – and since you _are_ a doctor, you would be able to make sure that he was in a condition to be brought to his flat, instead of the hospital."

"But still, Sherlock, film him?"

"Why yes, he filmed _me_ when _The Woman_ had drugged me, so surely this is what people do when their acquaintances are in a state where they are not able to think straight… Besides, it might just bring me leverage if there is an interesting case I want in on."

"So… You are going to blackmail a DI from the Yard? Honestly Sherlock that's just stupid – and besides, he always calls you in on the more interesting cases anyway."

"Fine…" Sherlock let out an annoyed sigh, "We will not film him, but I suspect we should be going, if we want to find Lestrade in any state of awareness."

"You're probably right. But I'm going to call him just to make sure he is still there."

John fumbled with Sherlock's phone, still a little weary-eyed, and pressed the call-button. There was no answer, it rung out and went to voicemail,

"Greg? It's John, I'm, well we, are a little worried about you. Please call if you hear this; I'm going to call you again in a little while, and we are coming to get you, okay. Bye."

John hung up and resigned. Now he was definitely not going back to sleep any time soon.

"Greg? First name basis then."

The small annoyance in Sherlock's voice was a little bewildering to John, did the Consulting Detective actually think that John was not allowed to be friends with Lestrade. Surely even a man with Sherlock's lack of understanding people and friendships in general couldn't just assume that it was okay to try to monopolise a person. Besides, John needed to get out of the flat now and then, to see his mates, to go on dates. Sometimes it was just to keep the insanity of what had become his everyday life at bay, at other times it was to keep his ridiculous _feelings_ from making him do something tremendously stupid,

"Well off course, he is a friend, you do know that he and I go out for a pint now and then." John snapped.

Sherlock made a huffing sound, swivelled on his heel and disappeared down the stairs in a way that almost made it sound like he was deliberately compelling each step to make as much noise as possible. John sighed, not only had he been awakened from a perfectly nice sleep, he now also had to go pick up a drunken friend _and_ deal with an inexplicably sulking flatmate. _Fantastic_.


	2. Lines of reasoning

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing**

**A/N: **This is my version of Sherlock, if it's slightly OOC, well… Shit happens. If it comes of as funny, it is not intended (though I had fun writing it, so you are allowed to smile), I'm merely trying to imagine how his thoughts work, and that includes a lot of digressions – in no way a straight line. I've tried to keep them at a minimum, but it's hard because, well, it is rather fun to write like that.

And: Watch your steps... Later 'Sherlock' chapters are not as bad as this one, but it had to be done this way.

(**10/5/12:** again, just checking for mistakes. And removing the A/N promising this to be the last long A/N. It was a lie. I'm a bad, bad A/N-liar-person)

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**Lines of reasoning  
**Sherlock's POV

If he was to be perfectly honest with himself (well that was a stupid phrasing, since he actually always was; lying to oneself was a perfect exampled of wasted energy that _normal_ people indulged in) Sherlock was annoyed because John apparently had banned filming DI Lestrade. Lestrade had filmed him once, so why on earth did John not protest against that, and more annoyingly: why was he suddenly lecturing Sherlock on the subject of not filming drunk-out-of-their-mind acquaintances? So it was because of John's lecture that Sherlock was annoyed and had resolved into suggesting that the film were to be used in blackmailing the DI.

But this line of reasoning left a problem – perhaps not a big problem, definitely a problem someone else would have missed – because if he replayed the conversation between John and himself in John's bedroom… Yes, the annoyance at hand was clearly connected to a conclusion he had reached a while back, and since then had tried ostentatiously to delete. Sherlock clenched his lips together and tried to focus on the still-sleepy London streets outside the cab's windows (apparently annoyed was all he was able to feel right now, but that was due to annoying _circumstances _that he himself had no control over – no matter how hard he tried), and reluctantly lined up the reasons for his annoyance:

1: He, apparently, had not been 'perfectly honest' with himself.

2: He had not become annoyed at John's lecture; he already was annoyed at that point.

3: He was annoyed at John because… Because of the idiotic smile on his face when he was reading the texts from Lestrade. No, scratch that. He was annoyed at John because of the clenching feeling John's idiotic smile had caused in his stomach.

4: The clenching feeling in his stomach had come because John's soft smile (_soft smile! Idiotick smile, Sherlock, idiotic smile. Almost the smile of someone who had had a lobotomy_ Sherlock corrected himself)... John's _idiotic_ smile had caused him to remember a mistake he had made.

5: The mistake he had made, which frequently came back to his consciousness (apparently it did _not_ understand the concept of being deleted, which in itself made him annoyed) and reminded him that he had been to hasty in his dismissal of the pass John had made at him on their first night at Angelo's (to be fair, Sherlock had wanted to make himself clear so there would be no future misunderstandings, people who suddenly changed their agenda towards him made him uneasy).

6: John had not, in fact, made a pass at him.

7: John was not attracted to men.

8: He was attracted to John.

Number seven, eight, and five clearly was the main sources of his annoyance. He shouldn't _care_ whether John was attracted to men or not (number seven incidentally also meant that he had had no reason for the clenching feeling in his stomach that had appeared at the same time John had smiled at _Greg's_ texts, this was annoyingly contradictory). He shouldn't care, because he shouldn't be attracted to John (cf. the conflict with number eight as yet another source of annoyance), and, well, number five was self-explanatory – he hated making that sort of simple mistake.

"Sherlock are you even listening to me?"

Johns voice pierced his now almost perfectly sorted thoughts – and left them shattered once again. Annoying yes.

"Mmm…" Sherlock hummed.

Probably not fair to take it out on John, but since he was the source it was the easiest thing to do.

"You haven't heard a word I've been saying, have you?"

Rhetorical question, no reason to answer.

"Sherlock have you heard anything I've told you while being in this cab?"

"No, I've had more important things to focus on."

John let out a sigh, now he was annoyed too, excellent, well he was actually already annoyed before they got in the cab, so this made little difference. Sherlock could see John's reflection in the wet windows of the cab, he was looking at the back of Sherlock's head and what appeared to be an inner battle was going on inside that blond head of his. It seemed like a battle between relinquishing the subject he had been talking about up until now or continuing to demand Sherlock's attention out of nothing but defiance.

"Oh, so you don't mind then?" sadly the 'relinquishing' part had lost then.

"Don't mind what?"

Really, now was not the time he wanted to have a discussion with John, he just wanted to continue to deleting his conclusions and the reasons for these conclusions. This last one held a problem, Sherlock was well aware of that, because _John_ was the most vociferous reason for his conclusions, and he did not want to (nor would he be able to legally – but perhaps Mycroft would be a help in that matter) delete John.

Again John interrupted his thoughts with a sigh (really, that man sighed an awful lot, it was annoying but also endearing, which again made it even more annoying).

"I've just talked to Lestrade – in case you didn't hear the phone call either – and he sounds, if possible, even more drunk than he did 10 minutes ago, so I'm thinking that it would be a good thing if we brought him back to our flat so that I can keep an eye on him. And just in case it should become necessary, my medical supply will be close at hand."

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, he had planned on giving him a blank expression, but he felt his eyebrows rise up on his forehead. Why on earth was John so concerned with _Greg_, surely the DI was a grown man, he was able to make his own choices, and he had chosen to get drunk, be sad, be walked all over by his ex-wife, not hitting the proper keys on his phone, and texting Sherlock. John was always good at caring for others, especially those he liked, which fortunately included Sherlock (this thought made his lips twitch and the corners of his mouth formed a small smile), but right now it annoyed the hell out of him. And apparently the facial expression he ended up having made John a little uneasy, because the blond man cringed his eyebrows and his eyes flickered a little nervously,

"Sherlock, this is not another opportunity to film the poor sod."

"I already told you I wouldn't."

"You promise, Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"And you have no objections to the man sleeping in the apartment? I can put him up in my room."

"_No!_"

Judging by the look on John's face that came out in the wrong tone of voice – and too hastily. Sherlock collected himself; this could still be corrected,

"No, there are too many stairs. We are going to break our backs dragging a man of Lestrade's stature up two flights of stairs. You can put him on the sofa – or, if that is not good enough _Doctor_, you can put him in my bed, since I'm not going to need it anyway."

John's expression softened, so it seemed like he had succeeded in his diversion from his first exclamation.

"That sounds reasonable – your bed I mean; the sofa is too small, it would just make his hangovers worse being cramped up on it."

Always so considerate, John, this normal, not-boring boring person next to him. This made Sherlock even more annoyed. According to the definitions of friendship he was aware of, one could like (even love) ones friend (but only in at strictly platonic way) and find them not-boring. But Sherlock did not only like John in a strictly platonic way, he actually _wanted_ the man (and could _not_ forgive the dead, Greek philosophers for inventing the term 'platonic'). And right now caring Doctor John Watson had directed all of his care giving abilities towards _Greg_. Usually most of them were directed towards Sherlock, which made the fact that he could never have John the way he wanted bearable.

"Fine." he snorted out as an answer to John, the man was probably right after all, and if placing _Greg_ in Sherlock's bed made him satisfied, then so be it.

"Good…" John replied and turned his attention away from Sherlock and towards the darkly lit streets of London, a mixture of relief, annoyance and something Sherlock wasn't quite able to categorise played upon Johns face staring out the cab's window.

Sherlock turned his attention back out his own window and leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Perhaps 'annoyed' was the wrong word to describe the feelings that roared ('roared', really? 'Stirred' was perhaps more adequate)… 'Annoyed' was perhaps the wrong word to describe the feelings that stirred inside him. 'Peevish' seemed more fit – and besides it did sound better than 'Irritable', even though the meaning didn't differ all that much. But all three words did actually refer to the same thing… Synonyms were just so lovely when they made minds race in circles, at least as long as it wasn't his own mind. And to be perfectly, perfectly honest with himself, none of the words covered the reason for his annoyance; the different conclusions he had made weren't causing him to be annoyed, actually they didn't cause him to be just one word (however wonderful that would have been), they caused him to be two words: longing and jealous.

The cab came to a stop outside the Yard.


	3. Getting away

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing****  
****A/N: **This one is a little short, I know, but it needed it's own chapter.

(5/10/12: a little correction of some minor grammar-mistakes)

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**Getting away  
**John's POV

As he entered the pub John was greeted by the stench of old beer stains and cigarette smoke. He could only hope that Sherlock was in a state where he wouldn't be tempted to smoke, preferably filled with nicotine from his patches, because right now John did not want to handle a very drunk Lestrade _and_ a nicotine-hungering Sherlock. He scouted the pub and eyed Lestrade at the far end of the bar clinging to a half-empty pint of beer and a cigarette. Wonderful. Really, really wonderful.

"Why _people_ come to these places, I do not understand." Sherlock said from a point behind John, and accompanied it with a sharp intake of air – so, no nicotine-patches then.

"Well, that would be because they want a break from their everyday life – and hang out with their mates." At least the part with the break Sherlock would be able to understand.

"Hmm..." The voice was even closer behind John now, and he could almost feel Sherlock standing right behind him, his coat almost touching the back of John's jacket. This night just kept getting better. Not only did he have to handle sleep deprivation, a drunk DI, a nicotine-hungering Sherlock, now he also had to handle not letting his thoughts wander of into a very closed-off area. An area that he had worked so very hard to keep even more closed off and concealed than Area 51 (which he, by the way, was thankful for was located in America and to the best of his knowledge outside of Sherlock's awareness – otherwise the Consulting Detective surely would do his best to gain access, and that would probably not turn out well).

John let out a sigh, straightened his shoulders and tried to look both sympathetic and stern at the same time, just to prevent any objections from Lestrade about leaving half a pint at the bar, and walked up to the clearly pitifully looking man.

Lestrade looked at John with a hazy gaze, his eyes flickered slowly to Sherlock (who had kept annoyingly close), and then back to John. Right now John almost felt he could see the slow machinery inside the DI's head, and he wondered if this was how Sherlock perceived the rest of human kind – slow, blurred thoughts fighting to keep up with reality.

"Heello John." Lestrade drivelled as a greeting.

"Hi Greg, you OK?"

"Hmpf… That would be an overstatement… Been better."

"Clearly." Sherlock's annoyed voice rang out, and Lestrade's focus slowly shifted upwards behind John again,

"Oh, you here too, eh? Well that's a surprise."

"You texted me, remember." Sherlock stated, not questioned, in an even more annoyed voice than before. Lestrade looked thoughtful for a moment,

"Hmm… Yes, I remember, but I remember talking to John…" he made a vague gesture with his hand towards John, "… and I honestly didn't think _you_ would show up – you don't even _like_ me." The expression in Lestrade's eyes got a hurt glint, "And…" he tried to continue. Sherlock cut him off,

"Don't be an idiot, you are the least annoying person in the Yard. And if I disliked you, I wouldn't be here with John right now."

Lestrade got a strange look on his face, probably trying to decide whether to be offended or flattered by Sherlock's statement. John decided to intervene instead of risking that Lestrade settled for 'offended',

"Oookay, as much as this conversation is interesting, I think we should get you out of here and bring you home…" John got cut of by Lestrade, who clearly got aggravated by that,

"I _don't_ want to go _home_ – I'm sick of being lonely, I'm sick of being such an idiot, I'm sick of being made a bloody fool of by my bloody _wife!_"

"Ex-wife." Sherlock intervened.

"Thanks Sherlock, really not helping here. Greg, you are going home with us, I want to be able to keep an eye on you just to make sure you are okay." John sighed, he really just wanted to go back to bed and sleep. This was in almost every aspect not his idea of a good night.

"Oi, so I can watch how happy the two of you are? Well, that would be great… Yet another reminder of my misery…"

Johns made a skewed face at that,

"We are not together, you know. I thought at least you were aware of that." John retorted, now this was definitely getting annoying, but on the other hand, if the poor sod was heartbroken and secretly believed that John and Sherlock were together, it was understandable that he feared being rubbed in the face with it.

"I know…" Lestrade drivelled again "But I don't really understand why…" he made another gesture with his hand.

"Well, this has been a fun visit, but let's get out of here before I succumb to permanent brain damage by sniffing in the alcohol in the air." Sherlock said and moved from his position behind John and grabbed Lestrade's arm tugging him up on his feet. Lestrade followed willingly, even though his was a little unsteady. Clearly alcohol didn't affect the rest of his body nearly as much as it affected his line of thought and his fingers. But then again, that wasn't so strange; everyone gets affected in different ways.

"Has he paid yet?" John turned his attention to the grumpy-looking man behind the bar. "The DI? Yes, he paid just before you lot came in."

"Okay, thanks." At least John wouldn't have to take care of that then. But the man behind the bar should probably have cut Lestrade off hours earlier.

It took a little effort to get Lestrade navigated out onto the street, not that he wasn't trying to be cooperative, quite the contrary. And that, perhaps, was the problem. But they managed, and Sherlock even made yet another cab magically appear out of thin air. A practical ability John often wished he himself possessed. Sherlock got in first; dragging Lestrade in, and John tried his best to get the drunken man to squish together so that there would be room enough for the three of them.

"Where to?" the cabbie asked looking at them through the rear view mirror.

"Two two one B Baker Street." Sherlock answered in a strained voice. Why Sherlock never just said two-hundred-and-twenty-two John didn't get, but then again, Sherlock never did do things the easy way – or at least he didn't do them the way other people did them.

"If _that_ guy vomits, it'll cost ya, you know." the cabbie said irritably.

"Yes, yes… But it can't hardly be as expensive as bleeding in a cab." Sherlock said, ignoring the glare of the cabbie, who now looked slightly worried as he pulled the cab out onto the road. Sherlock then turned his attention to the window, looking like the other three people in the cab didn't exist.

"You know, John, I'm glad you came to get me." Lestrade said, braking the odd silence that had settled between them.

"Not a problem." John answered, only slightly lying, because even though he missed his bed terribly, he felt even more sorry for Lestrade, who obviously had problems of his own bigger than just getting sleep. And in a way, John felt a little privileged that he had agreed to going with them to Baker Street and actually allowing them to se him this vulnerable. John liked the man after all, and even though they talked about a lot of things when they went for a pint together, Lestrade never really mentioned his ex-wife, so clearly there were some unresolved issues there.

"Ya sure?" Lestrade turned towards John, looking worried, "I don't wanna be to no trouble." he continued. John shot a nervous glance towards Sherlock's tight expression in the window; this would not be a good time for the usual honest comment the Detective would come up with. To John's relief Sherlock just kept staring out the window in silence with a hard glimpse in his grey eyes.

"Yes Greg, I'm sure." John answered, trying to give him his most reassuring smile. Lestrade returned it with a grin, and moved his hand to John's left thigh and padded it a little before letting it settle there and giving it a little squeeze. This made John a little perplex at first, but to be fair, the man was drunk and trying to be friendly, so he just padded the hand on his thigh reassuringly. Sherlock snorted towards the window, looking, if possible, even more annoyed than before. The man clearly hated drunk people, he got the same expression on his face the times when John came back from a night out with his mates. At least he didn't say anything to upset Lestrade.

"We're here." the cabbie said, sounding a bit relived to get rid of them. John got out of the cab and got Lestrade back on his trembling feet, leaving Sherlock to pay for the ride.


	4. The Gates of Hell

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing  
**

**A/N:** I do realise that there is a lot of annoyance going on in this story so far, don't worry, it gets better (though not in this chapter, sorry).

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**The Gates of Hell  
**Sherlock's POV

The ride home had been utter hell, if Sherlock had to put it in short terms. And that, indeed, was the very, very short version of the entire ordeal. The pub had been one thing, the sleazy atmosphere and the annoyingly drunk Lestrade. But the ride home in the cab had forced Sherlock to keep quiet out of fear for what he might reveal by accident. Not that he usually had to worry about that kind, but it was hard to ignore the little, jealous monster that hungrily paced around his stomach when all of _Greg's_ attention was turned towards John, especially when the DI had placed his hand on John's thigh and John hadn't pushed it away or made an awkward face, he had only looked a little puzzled at first. Sherlock actually had to bite the inside of his cheek at that point to stop himself from saying something that surely would make John realise his feelings for him, and hence cause him to either ridicule Sherlock (of course John wouldn't do that, but others had, others whom Sherlock had thought even reciprocated his feelings) or simply move out. So instead of saying anything, Sherlock just kept a stern look out of the window.

In spite of his drunken state, _Greg_ was easy enough to get up the staircase, he actually only looked like he was going to trip once (that would have been quite nice, but if Sherlock hadn't supported him, John would probably had gotten mad at him). This irrational feeling of annoyance towards _Greg_ was quite irritating, because Sherlock happened to like the man, however idiotic he might be from time to time, and besides, Sherlock knew that the DI probably wasn't intentionally acting like this.

When they got into the hallway of the first floor, John stopped to look at Sherlock, having a slightly worried look in his eyes,

"Sherlock, could you go to the kitchen and find a bowl of some sort – preferably not one emitting any poisonous fumes – and bring it into your bedroom?" John's voice was soft, and Sherlock wished that he talked like that _because_ of him, not to him, and not because of his concern for _Greg_. And what on earth did he need a bowl for anyway?

"A bowl?" Sherlock had to ask, trying his best to keep an even tone of voice.

"Yes, Sherlock…" John sounded a little annoyed, if Sherlock had known that the first text from Lestrade, _Greg_, would have caused so much annoyance in such a short period of time, he probably would have ignored it. As it happened he had been unaware of that at the time.

"… Sherlock are you mentally present? I need you to get a bowl, from the kitchen, without poisonous fumes or _any kind_ of stench, so that I can place it at the bedside in case Greg has to throw up – unless you want to risk getting vomit on the carpet in _your own_ bedroom." okay, that actually made sense – but how was Sherlock to know that drunk people could vomit, well of course he _knew_ that, but he had never given it any thought unless it was related to a case (that one case had, in fact, been quite interesting, and the disgusted look on Anderson's face had made Sherlock feeling giddy for nearly an entire day).

"_Sherlock!_ Why are you wearing that smug smile – go get the _bowl_, I'll get Greg tucked in." Now John just sounded plain out mad. Sherlock sighed, wrinkled his nose just to show his displeasure, and turned to find the damned bowl.

As it turned out, finding a bowl that lived up to John's criterions was not as easy as it sounded, in fact it took approximately five minutes (and a rather unpleasant experience) to find one. Sherlock made his way back trough the dark hallway towards the dim light that streamed out on the floor from the crack in the doorway and the muffled voices coming from the bedroom. He couldn't resist creeping silently towards the door and stilled when he was able to see both _Greg_ and John through the crack, keeping himself hidden in the shadows of the hallway. This was perhaps stupid, because he had no real reason for spying on them like this, except perhaps his curiosity (_yes, curiosity killed the cat_ a smug voice, his own, reminded him silently).

_Greg_ was tucked under Sherlock's duvet, still wearing a t-shirt (it had to be his own, it wasn't Sherlock's, and he would have known if John had gone upstairs to get one of his own, so therefore it had to be a t-shirt that had been underneath _Greg's_ shirt – and a deduction like this was completely irrelevant right now), laying on his right side and propped up on his elbow. John was sitting on the edge of the bed, body turned towards _Greg_ (perhaps at this point, Sherlock _should_ stop being annoyed at the drunk DI, after all, it wasn't as if he was interested in John, he was straight as an arrow, and even if he _were_ interested, John was – in this case fortunately – not interested in men). John was looking down at Lestrade with a mixture of concern and amusement in his eyes,

"Greg, you should really get some sleep."

"Hrmpf, don't really feel like it… John, can I ask you something?"

"Sure, but I'm not promising that I'll answer."

"You and Sherlock…"

"Oh, not that again."

"No, no, but I cant help but wonder why you two aren't together..."

"We are friends; just friends, flatmates and colleagues in a way."

"Ya know, if I had a flatmate like you, I don't think I would keep just being flatmates with you."

"Uhm… Greg, you are clearly pissed out of your mind."

"Not that pissed."

"And straight."

"Well, that's debatable…"

"Debatable, okay… But you really need to get some sleep."

"You aren't horrified at what I just said?"

"No, I'm flattered actually, and I like you too, but as I said, you are drunk and you are going to regret this in the morning by the rate you are going."

"I'm not, I promise you that…"

The sentence just died out as _Greg_ (yes, despite his previous agreement with himself, Sherlock now felt a right to be annoyed at _Greg_ again) reached out his left hand to cup Johns chin, gazing into his eyes and looking almost enchanted. Clearly John was going to yank himself away from the touch and be repelled by _Greg's_ actions. But much to Sherlock's surprise that was in fact _not_ what happened. John actually leaned in to the touch and shut his eyes a little, returning _Greg-the-idiot's_ gaze (surely, under other circumstances, Sherlock would be able to do better than _Greg-the-idiot_, but this was not 'other circumstances'), a soft smile played on his lips and his cheeks blushed a little (presumably both, but in reality, Sherlock was only able to see his left cheek). This was all a bit confusing, and all Sherlock could hear was the rush of blood in his ears and the beating of his heart. Clearly he had made some wrong deductions regarding John, and clearly John… Sherlock froze, clearly John was not 'not gay'; he just wasn't interested in _Sherlock_.

Sherlock's lips squeezed tight, he wanted more than anything to move away from the sight before him, but he was like a pillar of salt (biblical reference, how _nice _in this moment with a reference like _that_). And now, to his horror, _Greg-the-idiot _leaned forward and _kissed_ John on the lips. And John returned it ever so lightly before pulling back; blushing a little more and his breathing (maybe this was just Sherlock's imagination) had increased slightly. This was far, far worse than what had happened in the cab.

"Greg…" John's voice sounded as soft as Sherlock had ever heard it before, and his heart clenched inside his ribcage.

"I'm sorry, it was wrong of me to assume…" _Greg-the-idiot's_ voice strolled off, and then, unfortunately, regained its drunken strength,

"Hell, you're not really in to blokes, are ya?"

Of course not Sherlock thought, and he had to use every bid of self-restraint to keep from snorting, clearly he had just misinterpreted the whole ordeal, he must have, even though it didn't happen that often. John was probably just embarrassed by the whole thing and tried to act nice about it.

"It's not that, Greg" Hallelujah, Sherlock just kept looking like a bigger, and bigger fool (and really, what was the deal with the sudden outburst of religious innuendo, he did not usually succumb to innuendo, and rarely understood it either, and he wasn't a religious man).

"I just… " John almost whispered, "I'm, I'm actually seeing someone, so flattered that I am, this…" he gestured with his hand between them, "this is wrong."

Did John just lie? clearly he wasn't _seeing_ anyone, otherwise Sherlock would know, he always knew, almost in the same way that one knows if it's going to rain by the smell of the air. Presumably John just didn't want to hurt _Greg-the-idiot's_ feelings, again Sherlock had to strangle a snort, that was so typical John, always thinking about other peoples _feelings_, always seeming to understand them.

"Oh, oh okay…" _Greg-the-idiot_ started speaking again, "but if you weren't, then…" and yet again he strolled off. John gave him a warm smile,

"If I weren't seeing someone, then maybe." What? That sounded odd, almost like a promise. This was too confusing, was John actually seeing someone without Sherlock having noticed, which would imply that this conversation Sherlock was witnessing meant that John in fact was attracted to men.

_Greg-the-idiot_ drew in a breath, "Tell me, really, has it got anything to do with Sherlock, I mean, it would be understandable…" that sounded weird Sherlock thought, almost like the man was attracted to _him_, "I mean, I'm not attracted to the man, but he is rather good looking."

"No, no it's _not_ Sherlock, I'm pretty sure - by the way - that he is rather asex…" John stopped himself, as if he were regretting the sentence he had just started, "In any case, he made it quite clear almost within the first 24 hrs of our acquaintance that he is a man married to his Work." John sighed.

_Asexual!_ Sherlock thought, it was one thing that he now had to hear one of his most regretted utterances repeated like this, an other to know that John clearly wasn't attracted to him, but to think that John thought he was _asexual_, that was just plain out unacceptable. Then again, even though John was a little brighter than the rest of them, he still was an idiot, so it was no wonder the man had made such a flawed deduction.

"Hmm… Perhaps you're right, after all, you do know the man better than I do." _Greg-the-idiot_ sighed, and John gave him another smile,

"You should sleep, I'll get a bowl and put it beside the bed, Sherlock seems to have forgotten about it," John pointed towards the floor just beside the head of the bed, "and put it here, just in case you should need it."

"You really are a good mate, you know that, right?"

"Yes, I do, now go to sleep." John said with a smile in his voice and started to get up. Sherlock realised that unless he moved very quickly, John was going to open up the door and stand face to face with him, and even John would be able to know that Sherlock had been standing there for a long time – the bowl in his hands was a clear evidence of that fact. He moved as soundlessly as he could and quickly made his way back to the kitchen where he placed the bowl next to the sink, and then sneaked in to the drawing room to place himself in his chair elegantly, stippled his fingers in front of his face, closed his eyes and assumed a contemplating look with slightly raised eyebrows. This he was good at, creating an impenetrably armour around himself. He listened carefully to John's footsteps coming down the hallway and reached the kitchen, how John made an annoyed sound (presumably because he found the bowl by the sink, and also caught sight of Sherlock sitting in the chair), and how he then walked back towards Sherlock's bedroom and the (hopefully) sleeping _Greg-the-idiot_.

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**A/N:** Please review, it's the only way I can get a clue whether I've strolled down the wrong street or not :-)

This is going to be the last update in a couple of days, because I unfortunately have a tight schedule. The reason for the rapid update rate so far is that the story is almost finished, and if everything goes according to plan, the last chapters should be finished and up within a week.


	5. Obviously impossible

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing**

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**Obviously impossible  
**John's POV

John closed the door to Sherlock's bedroom, Lestrade was already sound asleep on the other side, and at least he didn't seem as drunk as he had when they went out to get him, so perhaps John had just overreacted when he thought it would be best to bring him back to Baker Street. On the other hand, the man clearly had had no intentions of leaving the pub to go home, and the bartender was irresponsible enough not to cut him off. And John could sympathize with the fear of going home just to be alone with the thoughts inside ones head.

He did not, however, expect how the rest of the night had turned out. He was actually very surprised that Lestrade had made a pass at him, kissed him in fact, because he didn't think Lestrade was attracted to men in the slightest. That had (_obviously_ Sherlock's voice interjected) been the wrong presumption. He was flattered of course, and if Lestrade hadn't been so drunk, perhaps he would have taken him up on the offer, it would be a lie to say that he hadn't thought about the man in passing, who was both kind and rather handsome. But besides from the fact that he would feel like he was taking advantage of a drunken man, it didn't feel quite right to be kissing someone in the bedroom of the man that John so keenly tried _not_ to make the reason why his heart raced, unless that someone actually _was_ said man.

So to get out with as much dignity as possible for both of them, John had used a little white lie; perhaps later, when Lestrade wasn't drunk, he could see if the offer that the kiss held still stood.

John considered for a moment to walk straight up to his bedroom and just go back to sleep, but he couldn't help being a little annoyed at Sherlock who, instead of fetching the bowl, had wandered off to the drawing room to look mysterious in his chair. Clearly the man had actually found the bowl and placed it by the sink, but why on earth hadn't he bothered to bring it to the bedroom – perhaps he had thought it would just jump off the counter and stroll down the hallway on its own. If John couldn't have the man, and couldn't have Lestrade, then he damn well could have a small outlet by scolding the Consulting Detective sitting in the chair looking like the world was no concern of his. So he made his way into the drawing room, against his better judgement.

"Sherlock why didn't you bring the bowl?" John's voice came out harsher than he intended it to, and Sherlock snapped his eyes open and studied him over his fingertips, measuring him and then piercing right through him. This was clearly _not_ going to go well.

"He kissed you" Sherlock stated in a cool voice. John wondered what had given it away, he wasn't even blushing anymore, not to his own awareness anyway, and even if he were, then the room was only illuminated by the streetlight coming through the windows, so it would be, or at least it should be, impossible to tell. In any case he might as well give up, agree to Sherlock's statement and then disappear upstairs as quickly as possible. However that was not what he found his mouth saying,

"What? No, _no!_ Sherlock, he didn't"

"Lie" Sherlock interrupted impatiently.

"Wha… Fine, _yes_, he kissed me. I'm very sorry it happened in you bedroom, it won't happen again I assure you."

"The kissing or the kissing in _my_ bedroom?" Sherlock said in a quizzical tone.

John sighed,

"How on earth could you possibly know about the... _kiss_?" he finally said.

A smirk crept onto Sherlock's face,

"I _saw_ it" he simply said.

John froze, Sherlock had actually _seen_ it; he had actually been out there in the hallway watching. Even though John new that Sherlock wasn't bothered by, or interested in, that sort of thing, he still felt his heart sink in his chest, this exact moment had to be the worst moment of the entire night. John flicked his eyes nervously and looked around the room, anywhere else than Sherlock. That was yet another one of the many, many mistakes he had made since being abruptly awakened at half past four in the morning (the first being getting out of bed). Sherlock moved swiftly from his chair and in a few short paces he was standing barely a foot away from John, looming over him.

"You liked it" yet another statement that was impossible to deny.

John shrugged; there was no point in denying it,

"Yes, yes I did"

"But you are not gay, you said so yourself"

"No, I'm not" John looked into Sherlock's sharp eyes, feeling utterly defeated. To his surprise, the man looking back at him suddenly seemed a little… confused?

"I'm bisexual, Sherlock" John said in a small voice, this was getting more awkward by the second, but at least it looked like a light bulb got switched on inside Sherlock's head as his eyebrows rose up.

"Oh" the sound was almost inaudible, and it made John's heart race, oh God, he was so close to the man now, and surely Sherlock would notice John's arousal and snort at it, snort at John and how ridicules his _feelings_ were.

"So… You are attracted to Lestrade, but you are not attracted to me?" And there was the perfect 'get out of jail free'-card, all John just had to do was to take it and this would all be over, and he could retread to his bedroom and forget it all, and Sherlock would not give it a second thought. But there was something in Sherlock's eyes that almost looked like it was seeking something in John's, there was only a hint of that feigned numb gaze at the corners, ready to take over, everything else in his eyes looked like a mixture of fear, hurt, want… Surely John had gotten something wrong somewhere. This was definitely _not_ the Sherlock he usually dealt with.

John drew in a sharp breath,

"I… You made it very clear to me, from the beginning, that you have no interest in sexual matters what so ever" John clenched his lips together.

"That's not what I said, I said…" Sherlock started. Thrust Sherlock to start discussion that kind of technical details at a point like this.

"No, no, but that's what you implied, surely you were aware of that" John said.

"Fine… If I hadn't _implied_ that?" Sherlock asked in a voice that almost sounded like he was afraid of the answer.

"But you did, and I respect that" was all John could make himself say.

"You are the one who is inclined towards alternative scenarios, so… If I had not implied what I did back then?"

"Sherlock, you are my friend, don't push it, you're married to you Work"

This was clearly getting out of hand John thought.

"Yes, yes, but John, you still haven't answered my question" Sherlock said a little impatiently.

"Okay, fine, I will answer your question if you promise to stop interrogating me"

"I promise"

John thought hat sounded sincere enough, so he decided to try giving an honest answer, as stupid as it might be,

"Hmm… Fine, all right, if, _hypothetically_, you had not said what you did back then, then yes, I would be attracted to you" there, it was out, and John just wanted to dig a big hole in the ground an bury himself in it. He started turning towards the door when Sherlock spoke,

"So…" clearly the man did not understand the concept of a promise "Since you are not the type who are capable of locking away your emotions, this means that you are attracted to me?" Not a statement, but a nervous question. This time John was quite sure he wasn't imagining it, so he turned back towards Sherlock, trying not to look into his eyes,

"Yes, yes it does, Sherlock I'm so sorry, I didn't intent for you to find out"

The room fell silent, and no matter how hard John tried, he could not make himself move, it was if he was glued to the floor. Still not looking at Sherlock, he straightened his back and lifted his chin a little, now that it was out he would not stand here and be embarrassed about his honest feelings. His muscles tightened and he prepared himself for whatever smart comment Sherlock would toss at him in just a matter of seconds.

But nothing happened, Sherlock just stood there. John closed his eyes in defeat, this was hopeless, he had actually managed to shock the man, and now Sherlock didn't know how to react, hell he probably hoped that John would just vanish, so that he didn't have to be bothered by these ridiculous _feelings_.

And then John felt a small, almost non-exciting movement in front of him, and to his surprise he felt a brush over his lips, as light as a feather and oh so soft and careful, and he had to let out a little gasp of surprise. This definitely had to be a figment of his very vivid imagination on the subject of 'how would it feel like to kiss Sherlock Holmes', it had to be, because there was no chance in hell that Sherlock would actually kiss him, and definitely not as gentle as this.


	6. An experiment gone wrong

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing**

**A/N: Aaand… Here it is – the chapter with smut. I hope it lives up to your expectations, because by God it was hard to write.**

(if you don't like this sort of thing, don't read it – seriously, just wait for the next chapter)

I know I have changed the category a little - I deemed it necessary after finishing up the last chapters.

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**An experiment gone wrong  
**Sherlock's POV

This was unexpected, in a good way; actually it was unexpected in exactly the same way as when an experiment went wrong, and the outcome was, however not intended, incredibly useful – like the invention of penicillin or nylon (not that either had any relevance now, even though John _was_ a doctor and he presumably did _not_ wear anything made of nylon). Sherlock slowly raised his hands to rest them on John's shoulders and carefully deepened the kiss against John's lips, lips that definitely were softer than first anticipated. Sherlock let his tongue slide slowly over the seam of John's mouth.

This caused him to panic, because John still just stood there, he didn't move, he didn't really reciprocate the kiss and he seemed a little tense. Maybe Sherlock had misinterpreted what John had said, even though it was hard to see exactly _how _such a horrible misunderstanding could have taken place. Sherlock stilled, this had been a mistake, now John would draw back, look at him and calmly explain how Sherlock had misunderstood the situation, and then he would leave.

When Sherlock stilled in the kiss it brought life back to John, and he moved his hands to rest on Sherlock's hips, the same movement causing his lips to part a little, and now it was John who were pressing his lips against Sherlock's. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's hips and slowly drew him in closer, pressing their bodies together. Feeling all of John like that (even though it was through immense layers of clothing) caused Sherlock to gasp entirely involuntarily and John immediately took advantage of it, as if he had been waiting for that moment. He moved his tongue in between Sherlock's parted lips and started exploring his mouth, almost as if the tongue was just an expanded part of his eyes (and this was the exact second Sherlock decided to actively try to shut down his thoughts, he just wanted to feel this and catalogue John without the incisive noise in his head).

Sherlock leaned into the kiss and let his own tongue meet John's, so wet, slippery and hot, and drew out a muffled moan from the shorter man.

He slowly manoeuvred John over to the sofa and pushed him down, unfortunately causing their lips to part. Sitting there John looked a little startled, as if he hadn't noticed they had moved and now was wondering how the sofa had managed to attack him from behind. It was hard not to smile down at the man, and it was definitely impossible for Sherlock to stop his heart from racing out of control at the sight of John in the sofa, lips slightly swollen and just a hint of a blush on his cheeks visible despite of the darkness of the room.

This Sherlock had definitely not anticipated, not even in his best scenarios had he thought that this would happen, and certainly not like this. All of his scenarios involved him convincing John that John was interested in men, preferably only Sherlock, and that would have been a tiresome ordeal.

Sherlock placed his hands on the backrest of the sofa on both sides of John's head and leaned forward to kiss him again, more fiercely than before and now with John as a more than eager participant. He felt John's hands on the collar of his shirt, dragging him closer, moaning, and Sherlock was actually no longer able to keep track of whose moans he was hearing. John started slowly unbuttoning the shirt between his fingers and painfully slowly he removed it from Sherlock's torso, forcing Sherlock to move his hands from the sofa.

And then John pushed him away, not violently, but determined, breaking their kiss. Sherlock felt a little bewildered, what was this, was the man regretting?

"John, wha…" he said as he straightened up.

"Shh… _Sherlock_" John whispered, looking up at Sherlock with wide eyes,

"I just… I wanted to _see_ you, to be allowed to really look at you… Oh God, you are truly beautiful…" John just sat there looking up and down Sherlock's exposed upper body.

"_John_" Sherlock almost moaned. He wanted to be able to see John too, and to touch him and taste him and… And if it had happened ten minutes ago, it would still not have been soon enough. He bent down and straddled John, cupping his face and resumed their kiss, feeling John's hands sliding up to his waist and onto his chest in an inquisitive way. They were both becoming breathless and Sherlock became very much aware of the throbbing hardness of his erection pressed into too little space inside his trousers.

He pressed his groin against John's and the result was a loud moan travelling all the way from John's throat and into his mouth before it swept over Sherlock's tongue sending shivers all the way down his spine.

"John, _John_, we need… I need…" Sherlock tried to formulate what he wanted, but his words escaped him, so instead he simply gripped the bottom of John's jumper and worked the shirt underneath out of John's trousers and yanked it off, which was a bit harder than it should be, because John was only reluctantly removing his hands from Sherlock's skin, and neither of them felt like breaking the kiss. But finally the mission succeeded and Sherlock tried very hard to touch all of the suddenly exposed skin before him all at once. John moved his hands to Sherlock's back, leaned a little forward and pulled Sherlock in close so that their upper bodies were pressed tightly together, and Sherlock was able to wrap his arms around John letting one hand travel up into his hair. He tugged John's head back, stretched out his neck and thereby enabling himself to move his kisses downwards.

John groaned a little impatiently, but Sherlock ignored it and continued down the neck, letting his tongue drag slowly over the line of John's collarbone and ending at his left shoulder and the scar there. Unable to resist it, he let the tip of his tongue explore the outlines of the scar tissue, which elicited a small gasp from John. Sherlock smiled a little against the marred skin (it just made John more perfect in his opinion, anyone begging to differ were idiots) and kissed the scar before slowly kissing his way down John's chest, feeling the rib cage heaving and collapsing in a rapidly increasing pace, and stroking the soft skin underneath his fingertips. Every single kiss was accompanied by a soft moan from John, which grew in intensity the lower down Sherlock got, and when he reached John's stomach and had to move his knees to the floor, John uttered a rather loud groan and dug his fingers into Sherlock's curls.

Then Sherlock's fingers reached for the zipper in John's jeans, and the man above him almost stopped breathing and tightened his grip.

"_Oh_ _God_, Sherlock… I… Fuck…" John panted as he lifted himself a little, enabling Sherlock to pull his jeans and pants down to the middle of his thighs. Sherlock wasn't able to prevent himself from groaning at the sight of John's glistening, hard erection in front of him and the tight grip in his hair. He carefully let out his tongue and slid it all the way from the root to the head and then he took John in his mouth and slowly started sucking him.

"Fuck _Sherlock_… Fuck yes" John moaned above him and Sherlock increased his pace and felt John getting even harder, and he let out a muffled moan against John's erection. If John continued to make the sounds he was now making much longer, Sherlock was going to come right there on the floor between John's legs, untouched. But he couldn't make himself stop, because he _needed_ to hear John like that.

"Ah _Jesus Sherlock!_ _Oh God…_ I'm too fucking close…" John gasped, and judging by the way his erection twitched and how hard it was, he was probably right. Reluctantly, Sherlock pulled his mouth away and looked up at John who was breathing rather erratic.

"I… Oh fuck Sherlock, I usually don't… I mean, I've just wanted this for too long I guess" John gazed down at him with an embarrassed glimpse in his eyes. Sherlock pulled himself off his knees, leant over and gave John a passionate kiss before standing to his full height holding out a hand to John, begging him to follow.

Getting upstairs was harder than usual, regardless of the fact that both of them tried to hurry as fast as they could. John had to pull up his jeans so they wouldn't slide down and block his movements on the staircase, this, however, annoyed Sherlock immensely, because he really wanted to _see_ Johns arse, preferably touch it as much as possible too.

So he might incidentally have stopped John on several occasions on the staircase just to slide a hand – or two – onto John's hips and then inside the loose jeans down on John's arse, holding it in a firm grip. This again would lead to John's jeans sliding down slightly, risking ('risking' was a poor word, 'hopefully' was definitely better) – hopefully locking him in place, and then they would start kissing again and grinding against each other, eliciting muffled moans. So yes, a good estimate of the time it took to get to John's bedroom would be something between 10 and 20 minutes. Sherlock was a little unclear about the timeframe to be frank.

They almost stumbled in to John's room, and Sherlock pushed him down on the bed and in a swift movement he pulled off the jeans and pants that had been in the way for far to long. He climbed onto John, and the shorter man reached for Sherlock's fly and fumbled with the zipper.

And finally, finally they were naked against each other. Sherlock pinned John down with his body and rocked against him, feeling their erections grinding together. John's wide eyes were gazing up into Sherlock's as they shared the same breath, the moans closing the distance left between their lips.

John reached out and twined a hand into Sherlock's curls, forcing him down to close the space between them.

Sherlock had to wonder how John's lips and mouth could be both soft and fierce at the same time, in the same kiss. He pulled back, straddling John and looked down into eyes filled with so much desire – how had Sherlock not noticed that before? John placed his hands on Sherlock's hips and started rocking slowly against his groin.

"I… I want…" Sherlock started, fighting to find his breath, "I want to feel you inside me…"

John's eyes became, if possible, even wider and he elicited a moan, fighting to find his voice,

"Sh… Sherlock, are you sure… I mean… Have you ev…" he closed his eyes and groaned, pressing his fingers into Sherlock's hips. Sherlock raised his eyebrows,

"Oh…" he managed, oh of course, if John had thought until tonight that Sherlock was asexual, then he probably also assumed that Sherlock was a virgin (and he had read that dreadful report of Mycroft's, who presumably hadn't left out anything regarding the encounter with _The Woman_ and what she had said).

_'Idiot'_ Sherlock thought with a smile. He leant forward, supported himself on his elbows on each side of John's head, and whispered into his ear, resisting the urge to lick the earlobe he almost touched with his lips,

"I'm not a virgin, if that's what you're afraid of… And right now _I want to feel you inside me, feel you fill me up_" he finished the sentence by taking John's earlobe into his mouth, sucking lightly on it. And John let out a loud groan and pressed his erection harder against Sherlock's,

"I've got… In the nightstand… The drawer" he tried to say against Sherlock's ear.

"I know" Sherlock simply stated, of course he knew where John kept that sort of thing – and besides, it wasn't like it was very well hidden. John chuckled softly,

"Of course you do" he said.

Sherlock leant over and found the lube and the condoms in the drawer, he then kissed John and let his kisses travel downwards until he reached John's abdomen. He closed his fingers around John's erection and stroked it slowly, he couldn't resist. John moaned above him, he had propped himself upon his elbows and was watching Sherlock touching him with slightly parted lips; he almost looked as if he were begging.

Sherlock put the condom on him with one hand, while softly squeezing his scrotum with the other, which made John whimper,

"Oh, please… Fuck Sherlock, I want you…"

Sherlock pressed a kiss against John's hipbone before he crawled back up and hovered above John, kissing him. He heard the soft click of the bottle and felt a hand close around his own erection starting to stroke him, while the fingers of another hand found its way behind his scrotum, and slowly started to circle before one slick finger carefully pressed into him and he had to moan against Johns lips. Then another finger pressed into him as well and slowly they started scissoring him open, and Sherlock couldn't help but to rock against the fingers penetrating him and the hand wrapped around him. He clenched his teeth together as a third finger was pressed inside of him, it had definitely been too long since he had last had sex, so it took a little longer than he expected to be ready, and then finally he felt the muscles relax.

"I'm ready" he whispered and John carefully pulled out his fingers, allowing Sherlock to straighten his back and slide himself down onto John. He felt John letting go of his member and instead gripping his hips, burying his fingers in Sherlock's pale flesh. Sherlock held still for a moment to fully adjust and then slowly he started rocking, searching for the right angle and the right pace. He stroked his own throbbing erection in the same rhythm and threw his head back, moaning.

"My _God, Sherlock… you're beautiful_" John exclaimed with words strangled by his groans. Sherlock barely heard it; he was too consumed in the feeling of John inside of him, of John's hands on him, the soft skin touching his inner thighs and the quiet peace that was settling inside his head.

Whatever little sense of time he had had left had now completely vacated the premises of his brain.

He fell forward pressing himself against John as much as possible, feeling their sweat mixing and John's arms wrapping around his back.

"_Yeees, oh… I…_" was all he managed to say before the world went dark and he felt an orgasm pouring through him, vivifying every single cell in his body. In the distance he heard John's cries as he came as well, and he felt the tremors riding through the body below him.

And then he collapsed on top of John and laid still for a while, just focusing on breathing, however boring it was he had to admit that breathing was a necessity, and John's breathing was a rather comforting rhythm.

"_Sherlock…_" John whispered softly, "Sherlock I think we better get cleaned up" Sherlock only grunted in response, he felt fine for now. But apparently John didn't, he carefully eased himself out of Sherlock before he pushed the man off him with a small chuckle,

"You know, you almost look like a very lazy cat I had once" he said as he found something to clean up the worst of the mess with.

"Hmm…" whatever people thought of cats, Sherlock did not appreciate the comparison, and had it not been for his sleepy, satisfied state, he would have explained the matter to John. But right now, he just wanted John to come back into the bed. The man, however, rummaged around some more (really, what was he doing!) before _finally_ getting back and snuggled in next to Sherlock. And just to make sure John didn't try to get up again, Sherlock did his best to wrap his arms and legs around him, pressing the doctor almost painfully close.

"Sherlock, you're almost squeezing me," John said with a smile in his voice, and Sherlock loosened his grip a little, because if he himself needed to be able to breathe, his ribcage should at least be able to move – just a little.

They lay in silence for a short while,

"Um, Sherlock…" John said

"Mmm…"

"This is something we should talk about"

"No" There, discussion over, they could always do that part another day.

"I think we should, Sherlock"

"Fine…" Sherlock sighed, "But can we do this when we wake up?"

"You are going to sleep here?"

"Yes, unless you plan on kicking me out"

"No, I don't. I just didn't take you for the sleeping, spooning type" John said in a teasing voice.

"Shut up, and go to sleep"

"Okay, Goodnight Sherlock"

"It's morning"

"_Sherlock_"

"Fine, good_night_ then"

John let out a breath and Sherlock felt the muscles in the body pressed against him relax as John's breathing slowed down until the man was fast asleep.

Sherlock stared into the darkness of the room; this had been a most fortunate turn of events, and the outcome was definitely just as important as penicillin. Perhaps even more important. With that thought Sherlock let himself succumb to sleep.

* * *

**A/N:** So… What do you think? Is this an area I should stay out off in future writing? Should future M-ratings only be in regard to really evil, explicit murders?


	7. The elephant in the room

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing**

**A/N: **Yes, this perhaps got a little, Well… As the last A/N said I had to correct the genre-classification.  
But no worries, it could be worse, a lot worse actually. And it's not the end of the story – cf. the A/N at the end of the chapter.

* * *

**The elephant in the room  
**John's POV

John woke up to the incisive sound of the alarm; still utterly exhausted he reached out and slammed the snooze-button. Then he froze. In his tired mind the events of the night was a blur, and for a short moment he thought that perhaps it had just been a dream, a very vivid dream, but a dream non the less. Then he started to register reality. He was definitely naked, which he hadn't been when he went to bed in the first place, and to his left something, correction: someone, stirred, shifted and placed a long leg over his lower back. No, last night (early morning to be precise) had definitely not been a dream. He turned his head and was met by the rear sight of a sleeping Sherlock only a few inches away from him. He reached out and gently stroked a finger over Sherlock's cheekbones, down his cheek and then followed the line of his jaw all the way to his chin and down the side of the pale neck. This was surreal, the man was in front of him, and John was allowed to touch. Sherlock stirred again and put a lazy arm over John's back and tightened his grip a little as if to make sure John wasn't going anywhere. It was hard to prevent the smile from growing on his lips as Sherlock muffled his head a little closer to John's and slowly opened his right eye just a little to carefully watch him,

"Morning" Sherlock mumbled and John could do nothing but smile back at him in response.

"I see I presumed correctly when I thought you liked to cuddle in the morning." he said in a drowsy voice before leaning over and placing another one of his feather-light kisses on John's lips, and John gave in and let out a soft moan in response. Newer in his life had he imagined Sherlock being so... Soft, for lack of a better word. Then the alarm clock went of again and Sherlock made an annoyed sound,

"Can't you just take your gun and kill the thing?" he said and John couldn't help but to laugh a little while turning over to turn off the clock and formulate a response to Sherlock about improper use of firearms. And that was when he remembered Lestrade sleeping downstairs,

"Lestrade" was all he managed to say while a concerned expression grew on his face.

"Lestrade, really? He is asleep, and I were in such a good mood"

"Yes, well… I should… Um… I should get downstairs, or actually you should." John could hear his own voice panicking a bit.

"Considering the amount of alcohol the man consumed last night, the hour at which he went to sleep _and_ the fact that he kissed you and you turned him down I would say he is not likely to get out of my bedroom for at least a couple of hours." Sherlock stated flatly.

"Just to be on the safe side" John sighed.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and gave John a suspicious glance,

"You are ashamed of what happened last night – what happened between us"

"No, no I'm not Sherlock, but I don't want to confuse him even more. I turned him down by saying I was seeing someone, and that that someone wasn't you…"

"So you are afraid that he will think you're a liar? Or perhaps that you are cheating on this 'someone' with me. Clearly you are neither a liar nor an adulterer; well yes, you are a liar since you said you were seeing someone, but that should be easy enough for someone like you to explain. And at the time of your conversation, you were not aware of the feelings I have fo… _This _had not happened yet…"

That actually made sense, but still, John was inclined to pretend, at least around Lestrade, that this had not happened. At least not until he himself had a pretty good idea of what 'this' was. And then something struck him,

"Sherlock, you said feelings?"

"Well… Yes, _John_, I did"

John considered this, of course he wasn't stupid, of course he knew that 'this' hadn't just manifested out of thin air, but he hadn't really considered that Sherlock actually had feelings for him; the man that didn't let an opportunity to discard them as useless pass him by. Not that John considered him a cold fish, but he didn't actually think that Sherlock would allow himself to recognise that he had feelings. So he couldn't help himself,

"What exactly do you mean by that?" John finally said.

"I… Well of course I _feel_ physically attracted to you; that seems quite obvious – even you should understand that" Sherlock said, sounding almost angry. This was just ridiculous; John really should have left the subject alone,

"Yes, yes I know _that_, it just sounded… Well… Perhaps I… I don't know" John said, feeling a little hurt and bewildered. Last night Sherlock had seemed so tender and acted in a way that John didn't really associate with purely physical attraction.

"Of course you don't, because you're an idiot. But as a medically trained professional you _should_, it's chemistry that's it. And I would be inclined to repeat it on future occasions – should the urge occur." Sherlock said, sounding both angry and annoyed. John really didn't want to deal with this strange behaviour right now, he had exposed himself to Sherlock only hours ago, and now he had to listen to this. It was more than he could deal with right now,

"I'm going downstairs," he said as he rolled out of the bed and started to look for something to wear. Sherlock moved a little and made small annoyed sounds ending with a sharp exhale,

"Fine" he simply said before closing his eyes again and spread his long limbs over the entire bed.

John walked quietly down the stairs, trying not to make them creak and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on, right now he needed to be alone, read the newspaper and drink a nice cuppa while trying to forget the world. But perhaps the smartest thing would be to get rid of the shirts and the jumper in the drawing room first. As he came upstairs he heard the shower running and hoped there were going to be enough hot water left for him to have a shower later – the ancient water heater took painfully long to heat up a new batch of water.

The tea made it all seem a bit less confusing, and the newspaper gave John something to focus on, even though it was yesterday's news and he had already read them once. But then at least he would know what to expect from it as opposed to Sherlock. How on earth could John be so stupid as to think that the night had changed anything? Apparently he had misinterpreted Sherlock, the man had probably just made an experiment on him in a 'Gee, I wonder what will happen if I do this' kind of way, like a little boy poking a twig into an anthill just to see the ants running around in wild panic. So that made John an ant. And presumably he had acted the part to perfection, since Sherlock had indicated that it might happen again. Jesus this was stupid. What was he supposed to say to Sherlock who didn't seem like he thought it necessary to discuss it.

The whole situation was brilliant in the 'bit not good' way.

And John just felt terribly stupid.

The stairs creaked and John could hear Sherlock coming down in a hurry. He supposed he should give it a try and tell Sherlock how he felt, even though he didn't really know if it were going to make a difference to the man. John started to gather his breath, he wanted to be ready to speak the second Sherlock entered the door, which would be very soon, because the footsteps had stopped on the other side of the closed door leading from the drawing room to the hallway. Perhaps Sherlock did regret his actions and was considering whether he deemed it necessary to apologise or not.

After what seemed like an eternity John heard steps on the lower staircase, it wasn't Mrs. Hudson because the steps John heard were going down the stairs, not up. So it would seem that Sherlock didn't even think it was necessary to speak to John. And then the front door closed with a loud bang. Fantastic.

John leaned back in his chair and shifted his focus out of the window. Perhaps he should move out if Sherlock couldn't even apologise for this experiment, there had to be limits to how much John could put up with even though he knew that Sherlock had a hard time understanding social etiquette.

Another door opened and John pointed his ears. It was the door to Sherlock's bedroom. He had completely forgotten about Lestrade again, and right now he didn't really know how to handle him as well.

"Hi" Lestrade said as he poked his head into the drawing room, looking a little nervously at John. So he probably remembered what had happened – or he had heard something he shouldn't have.

"Hi, how's the head?" John asked.

"It's definitely been better. Any chance at tea?" Lestrade mumbled as he made his way to the sofa and tried to sit down while looking anywhere but at John.

"Yes, and perhaps some aspirin will do you good too"

"Definitely"

John got up to put the kettle on once again; at least he now had something other than Sherlock to focus on.

"Listen, John…" Lestrade's voice came from the other room, "I'm really sorry about… Well about last night. I mean, I'm glad you came to get me out of there, I would have probably still been there if it weren't for that,"

Lestrade sighed, and John could easily imagine what must be running through his head right now, he was probably considering whether he should say something about the kiss or if he should play dumb and pretend he had been too drunk to remember it. To give the man some time to make up his mind, John took awhile to find the aspirin and decided to make real tea instead of just using a teabag.

"Um…" it sounded from the drawing room,

"I guess… I guess I should… I mean I know I…" Lestrade strolled off again. He had decided to comment on it then, but didn't know what to say. John held his breath, everything had just been so odd, so he didn't really know whether to ease the man's trouble or if it was best to let him finish saying what he was about to.

"What I'm trying to say is… I guess I'm trying to apologise for… You know… coming on to you…" Lestrade finally said. John was just about to open his mouth and speak when he heard Lestrade drawing in a breath; apparently he wasn't finished,

"I was a bit… Well, you see my ex, she… The bloody woman has come back five times just within the last couple of months, every time she has told me that she wanted to get back what we had… And every bloody time she has just run off again. I feel so bloody stupid, you know…" he sighed and John decided that this was a good moment to bring him the tea and the painkillers,

"Here, this should help a little – but you probably should get some water as well" he said handing Lestrade the cuppa and the pills before he went back to sit in his chair.

"Thanks… If… Well, I suppose this is just a stupid thing to say… I didn't come on to you just as a rebound, you know" Lestrade carefully moved his eyes and met John's; clearly he was panicking a bit.

John honestly didn't know what to say to that.

"I… You know, I have thought about you… And… Yeah, I probably should stop talking now."

John just looked at him. If the rest of the night hadn't happened, this would be the point at which he would say _'really, you have? Well, I have thought about you too… And I'm not really seeing anybody, I just thought you were too drunk and I didn't want to take advantage of it.'_

But the rest of the night had happened. And no matter what, John couldn't stop thinking about Sherlock naked on top of him, how he had moved, how he had _wanted_ John and how John had wanted to disappear into the man, to be consumed by him.

John realised that he already were consumed. Bloody fantastic. As much as he wouldn't trade last night for anything in the world, he really wished it hadn't happened.

Lestrade pulled him out of his thoughts,

"John… I'm sorry, I didn't mean to freak you out or anything."

"I'm sorry, I was…" John strolled off.

"No, no it's… I realise you are in a relationship, so I really shouldn't be saying these sort of things."

"No really, it's fine… I just… Well perhaps I whish that I had known that earlier" John finally said. This was so ridiculous.

Lestrade shot him an appraising glance,

"So do I" he finally said, then he stood up, walked over to Johns chair and cupped his left cheek, letting his thumb slowly caress John's face. Lestrade gazed down at John and looked thoughtful; then he drew in a breath, straightened his back and went out to the kitchen to place the empty cup by the sink,

"I should go," he said.

John nodded.

"John, I really don't hope this changes anything… I mean I hope we can still… You know, go out for a pint now and then."

John studied Lestrade for a moment, the DI in the kitchen looked like he felt even more stupid than John did. And he wasn't the one who had danced like an ant and slept with his flatmate.

"Of course we can, it doesn't has to change anything, don't think about it." John said, then he added,

"I don't think you are ridiculous you know, as I said last night, I'm flattered."

"Thank you John." Lestrade said before walking out the kitchen and descending down the stairs.

John turned his gaze out the window and looked at the grey London sky. It would probably start to rain soon.

After a while he took a deep breath and stood up. He had to do something, and the only thing that seemed like the logical course of action right now was to start looking for somewhere else to live, even if it meant he had to move out of the central part of London. And he wouldn't have to explain anything to anybody; people would just assume that John had finally gotten fed up with Sherlock.

He hadn't, though.

He had gotten fed up all right, but it wasn't with Sherlock, it was with himself.

And if he was going to be an ant, he was definitely going to be it somewhere else than at 221B Baker Street.

* * *

**A/N:** As I said above: _Of-course-this-isn't-the-end;_ I'm not a total sadist. But I went where the story took me, and then this happened – still one more chapter to go, it will be up within the next 24 hrs.


	8. Love Is a Loser's Game

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, I profit from nothing**

**A/N: **The title for this chapter is from the song _'Love Is A Loser's Game'_ by the Danish band Dizzy Mizz Lizzy. I'm not really into music all that much, but I woke up Monday morning and had this chapter-title in my head and realised that it was, in fact, a song-title. And the song is quite good, a bit of melancholic rock I suppose, and Dizzy is one of the few bands I actually like wholeheartedly.

(and no, this is not a songfic-chapter)

**Warning:** spoiler for ASiB.  
And watch your step with this Sherlock-chapter… If it's too weird, I apologise.

I'll shut up now and let you enjoy the last chapter.

* * *

**Love Is a Loser's Game  
**Sherlock's POV

Yes it was stupid; he had to admit that. He had had a rare case of pure panic and he had actually told John that he only felt physically attracted to him, instead of owning up to the fact that John made every cell in Sherlock's body tingle (he did find John physically attractive, but that was not the real reason for this sensation, the reason could be found in the way John smiled, or in the movement of his hand as he put the kettle on, or the slow, steady breathing John had when he were concentrating on reading a book – or the newspaper, just like he had been when Sherlock had left).

Why had he panicked? That seemed rather obvious Sherlock thought. He had panicked because…

He frowned.

Maybe the reason for his panic wasn't so _obvious_ after all. Then again his previous experiences with _feelings_ and other people hadn't turned out well. And it had sounded as if John was regretting what had happened. And then Sherlock had made the mistake of letting the word '_feelings_' slip out, a word that John had caught and clung to as if he was a dog not willing to let go of its bone.

He had panicked out of fear for ridicule he supposed. And because he couldn't have _this_… Whatever it was. He couldn't have it because… If people didn't think him capable of having friends, how would he be able to be with someone like John?

So instead of telling John how often in the past he had wanted to reach out and let his fingertips map every single inch of John's skin accessible to him, Sherlock had ridiculed him and implied that what had happened had just been a result of chemistry, and told him that yes he would repeat the early hours of the morning – _if_ the urge came again.

This had probably been the time where he, in retrospect, instead _should _have told John that even though he understood the chemistry, he did not think of his attraction towards John as purely chemical.

Well of course falling in love was a chemical reaction. But this was perhaps more than just that; at least he didn't think it was comparable with the kind of chemical reaction that could just be discarded as a rapidly decaying mixture of different substances.

Actually it seemed fit to compare it with the 90th atom in the Periodic Table, Thorium. To be precise Sherlock would compare it with Thorium-232, the primordial isotope of Thorium. Yes that was adequate. But he doubted that John would understand it if he had told him that the intensity of his feelings towards him had a half-rate that was best compared with the primordial isotope of the 90th atom (which technically wasn't possible, since the half-rate of this particular isotope was approximately three times the age of the earth – and why had Sherlock found the age of the earth relevant enough not to delete it?), which made it more than _just_ chemistry. It was more like geochemistry actually.

Besides as a doctor, John would probably not have liked the comparison to a radioactive material, however precise it might be. And it was precise, because John had effectively affected Sherlock. If it were in any way possible for one human to change the genetics of another just by being near them, John would be able to have that effect.

So perhaps Sherlock had made a mistake by saying what he did. He had already had the feeling when he went into the shower after John had left the bedroom, because John had seemed upset by what he had said.

And therefore Sherlock had left the flat without a word.

He had simply fled the scene of the crime.

Preferably he would have resided on the sofa, but John was there, and Sherlock couldn't risk being interrupted in his contemplations, not even by John, and he didn't really want to see _Greg_ again just now, or hear what he presumably had to say to John. And maybe John would ask _Greg_ out because of those stupid, stupid things Sherlock had said.

So now Sherlock was walking around in London on a busy Saturday, the noises almost strangling his thoughts and there were too many people. He had decided to walk, just to make sure he didn't get a cheery cabbie and would end up choking the man. And besides, he could not immediately go to a café or a restaurant and have a cup of coffee, because he intended to get as far away as possible from 221B Baker Street to get a package of cigarettes and smoke in peace without risking to meet anybody he knew (meaning: if John for some reason left the flat and bumped into him he wouldn't know what to do). It was either the cigarettes or covering both of his arms with nicotine-patches, and the patches would end up itching.

Sherlock passed a woman who was currently out to get medicine for her sick husband, and while being out of the flat she was cancelling the date she had with her lover tonight (the hastily thrown on jacket, the stern irritated look in her eyes combined with worry, her slightly messy hair and the bags under her eyes (from a sleepless night), the tense lips, the way she held her mobile phone, the faint smell of sick she carried and the way she was in a hurry without wanting to hurry).

He picked up his pace; he needed the cigarettes and the way they could make his mind relax a little so he could focus more clearly on the problem at hand.

Finally he found a store located in a way that seemed like it could provide him with what he needed.

The man behind the counter only had a few years left to live, Sherlock could tell by his breathing. Obviously a result of 7 cigarettes too many each day for the last 12 – no 13 years.

"What can I get ya?" the man said.

"Craven 'A' King Size."

The man ogled at him and tightened his lips without looking like he intended to move.

"_Craven 'A' King Size_" Sherlock repeated with emphasis and the man gave him an evil look before turning to get the cigarettes and tossing them on the counter. Sherlock had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. This was one of those situations where John would have stood next to him and added a 'Please'. Probably John would have tried to prevent him from going out to get the cigarettes in the first place. Actually if this morning hadn't happened, he would have.

Sherlock went outside and found a quiet alleyway nearby where people wouldn't bother him (and where he hopefully (this was perhaps wishful thinking) would be out of reach for Mycroft's CCTV – actually he shouldn't bother, because his _beloved_ brother had presumably already seen him buy the cigarettes).

The levels of tar, nicotine and carbon dioxide in this particular brand matched his mental state of confusion and frustration. It wasn't as low on tar as it had been when he had went to the morgue to see _The Woman_'s body and it didn't contain as much as it would have if John had died. It contained what was necessary in a situation where Sherlock had no idea of what John was going to do, but feared it was something 'not good'.

And the sound of the tobacco being lit and then slowly burning its way towards his fingertips brought peace with it.

Sherlock stared into space; what was he supposed to do? He hadn't really meant what he had said to John. Well he had, but he hadn't meant it in the hurtful way it had come out, and he had to admit that he had probably rephrased the truth to push John away before John pushed him and his feelings away completely, making Sherlock look like the idiot.

And he didn't know what John actually _wanted_ from him. John who understood people and feelings and social etiquette and everything that Sherlock didn't (yes, he was aware of the fact that _people _thought he didn't bother in the first place, but there had been a time when he had bothered. He had just never succeeded at understanding it, and somewhere along the way he had given up trying to understand entirely). So what could John possibly want from him? Perhaps this was the point at which he had to figure out what _he_ wanted from _John_ and then tell him.

Sherlock contemplated this for a moment. Why should he list up things he wanted from John, if he didn't know if he could have them? He reluctantly decided to give it a try anyway – just in case he came back and John wanted to know.

1: He wanted John to be John (obviously, since it was John he was attracted to).

2: He did _not_ want John to start dating Lestrad (yes, he had once again decided to give it a go an and give the DI back his name, after all Sherlock had been the one who had slept with John, so he had probably won that round) or anyone else for that matter.

3: He wanted to be able to touch John whenever he wanted to (hopefully John should have no objections to this).

4: He wanted John to be his.

5: He wanted to be John's entire world.

Sherlock felt like a child who tried to reason with his parents as to why he should get an ice cream – without having a really good, logical reason but just invented something. At least if he had been diabetic he could probably say it was for the sake of his blood sugar.

He tossed the cigarette stub to the ground. He really wanted to light another one. But then John would object to that if he found out. _If_ he found out, there were so many things John didn't really notice. And since when did Sherlock try to act according to what John wanted (of course he did from time to time, but when he was consumed by his own thoughts he couldn't really spare the energy).

Consumed?

Consumed…

6: He wanted to be consumed by John; he wanted John to want him as much as he wanted John.

Sherlock straightened his back. This was probably what he should tell John, and knowing John, the sooner the better. The man had an irritating tendency to speculate over certain things and then throw them back at Sherlock in a new form that he didn't recognise. So if he should stand a chance to understand what was in John's head, now was the time he should head back.

It should be impossible, but it seemed like he had moved further away from Baker Street while standing in the alleyway. And knowing every street in London he knew he hadn't magically moved. But still not wanting to get a cab made the trip home take forever, as if the streets suddenly had doubled in length.

To add insult to injury it started raining. At first it came down in small drops, but within minutes it was pouring.

So when he arrived at 221B Baker Street he was soaking wet.

Before he reached the staircase he could hear John moving around inside the flat. It almost sounded like he were… Packing? Why would he be packing? Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and barged into the drawing room to find John putting things inside a duffle back and looking a little taken aback by the way Sherlock had entered.

"You're wet." John stated and straightened up to face him.

Sherlock tried to regain his breath (how come the stairs had made him feel so breathless? He was in good shape after all, and it couldn't be the cigare… Oh… He was panicking because John was packing. Why was John packing?) and fluttered his hand in the direction of the duffle back,

"Why… What are you… Why are you packing?"

"Why am I packing? Seriously Sherlock… Because I've had enough" John said looking both angry and sad at the same time. Sherlock knew he had behaved in a 'bit not good' way when they woke up, but this was unexpected in a very bad way,

"Where are you going?"

"I'm spending the night at Harry's – she isn't home this weekend."

"You're angry with me," Sherlock said, nothing else coming to his mind.

"No, I'm not really angry with _you_, well I am, but mostly I'm angry with myself for… for believing that _you_ wanted _me_" John's voice almost had a shrill ring to it.

"But I do."

"You said it was just chemistry, remember. And even though I know that you are going to say 'chemistry blah blah blah' I just… I don't want to be just your…" John strolled off.

"But chemistry…" Sherlock started.

"See, I knew you were going to say something like that. You know, I want you, all of you and I don't just want to be what – a chemistry-shag? I have actual feelings for you, and I feel so stupid for ever believing that perhaps you reciprocated them in some way."

"But I, I…" Sherlock said; this was really not good at all. How come the least idiotic idiot could be this stupid?

John drew in a sharp breath,

"Maybe I'm overreacting, but I've been… Well I have had feelings for you for too long, and either I move out or at least I get some time alone."

"I just thought… I… I don't… I was just trying to…" Sherlock said, feeling almost sick, and once again a rather aggravated John interrupted him,

"Was it just an experiment? Honestly Sherlock what do you want from me?"

"I _want,_" Sherlock drew in a deep breath and prepared to tell John his list,

"_I-want-you-to-be-my-bow._" the words stumbled out on top of each other. That was not intended, and it hadn't even been part of his list. But actually that was exactly what Sherlock wanted from John.

"Your bow?" John looked at him suspiciously,

"You want _me_ to be _your bow _as in what, your violin bow?"

"Yes."

"So you want to be able to use me and make me move whenever you feel like it?"

"No." apparently John didn't get this (Sherlock made a mental note: 'for future reference – do not try to make comparisons like this, people don't get them').

"What on earth do you mean then Sherlock!"

"I mean that I want you to be my bow – you do seem to fit."

"Sherlock what _the hell_ are you rambling on about?" John looked at him, clearly seeming confused.

"Well I would think it's obvious." Sherlock said, "But apparently it's not… In order to make even a good violin come to life and create full tones a bow should have certain qualities, for example it should be able to vibrate along the strings. You do seem to have that effect on me; you have just settled in and fitted into me. Furthermore a good bow should have the right balance, and your balance seems to fit me just fine, even though others probably would say it was a bit off… And of course the right bow should have both strength and flexibility – and you do possess both."

John blinked. Really, this shouldn't be _that_ hard to understand.

Sherlock sighed,

"Even the best violinist can't make meaningful notes on a violin without it. A violin without a bow is just like a peculiar guitar. And I don't particularly like guitars"

"_Sherlock…_" John whispered.

"It means that I _want you – _to stay."

At this John seemed to regain his ability to speak,

"Sherlock you really are talking nonsense, you know."

John still looked a bit confused, well rather confused actually. But a small smile was trying to make its way from the corners of his mouth across his face. It had already reached his eyes. Finally he seemed to get the point.

Sherlock didn't know what else to say on a matter like this, so he closed the space between them and lifted his hands to cup John's face. They stood like that for a while and gazed into each other's eyes, none of them daring to breathe as if it would make the moment disappear. Then Sherlock bent down and slowly kissed John on his forehead, on his cheeks and on his lips, lips that John parted to allow Sherlock easy access.

If sentiment was a chemical defect found in the losing side – Sherlock Holmes had just willingly lost the battle to a soldier.

Maybe sentiment wasn't about losing after all.

* * *

~~ PP ~~

* * *

**A/N:** And that's the end of the intended one-shot. I sincerely hope you liked it. I've written Sherlock the way I have partly because I think he obviously is somewhere on the autistic spectrum, not a psychopath nor a sociopath (which I would say is self-evident if you consider his behaviour on the show and read just a little bit about sociopaths). And an inspiration to write him this way comes from:

**http:/street-howitzer . tumblr . com/post/15587790724/the-slumber-of-feelings-a-study-of-autism-and-bbcs**

It's brilliant, do yourself a favour and check it out.

(I'm sorry to say I was not capable of writing him the way I set out to, I did my best though, and if the way I wrote it came of as ridicule, it was _not_ intended - it's written with love for the character).

**And finally, I have to say thank you!** This goes out to **freakingdork** for making me aware of the abovementioned link and for writing good Sherlock fics as well – it was one of those that made me create this account in the first place. It also goes out to **yourlovelylandlady** for making me believe that this was not all that bad and for being the reason I held the sadistic inclinations in my writing at bay (a little anyway).

* * *

It's going to be awhile before I write another fic (I do intend to), because this clearly gave me an idea of just how long a story a simple idea can lead to, and I honestly don't have the time for it right now.


End file.
